


Ash to Ember

by Charmtion



Series: Warmth in Winter [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Sexual Content, The Long Night... and the Dawn that Follows.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 13:44:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18661594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: Her fingers unfurl — one by one — till her palm rests flat atop his heart. Skin to skin, the rush of his blood a drumbeat that soothes the shiver from her bones, runs as fire-warmed wine the valleys of her veins till her cheeks glow pink and her lips part and her eyes blaze as embers blown to flames in the hearth. He tilts his head just slightly, gaze flicking from her waist to her face; their eyes meet as the breath hitches in her throat.Arya and Gendry survive the battle — and find warmth in each other amongst the ashes of its aftermath [post8x03].





	Ash to Ember

She comes to him at battle’s end — her shadow slender as the dagger gripped between her fingers.

Dawn is a distant dream far off on the horizon; but everywhere there are promises of its light, silvery threads hemming smoke, breath, and cloud as shapes picked out in a tapestry. Underfoot, the snow is hard-packed with the soot and soil of battle; blood and bone grinds fine as flour beneath the press of hoof and boot, drifts faint as dust to settle on shoulders, swords, shields — their sigils shining like ghosts through the gloom.

Ethereal as any eagle painted upon a half-chipped shield, the way she drifts toward him: a black shadow in a world that is slowly turning grey at its edges. He meets her eyes through the haze of smoke and snowflakes, scarce hears the dim thud of his hammer as it slips from his fingers.

She is not so careless.

Her gaze stays fixed on his as she slips the dagger into the soft leather sword-belt banding her hips; a practised gesture, swift, smooth — but he sees her fingers tremble, her teeth skate her lip as she smooths a thumb across the dragonbone hilt, over and over, as holy men grasp bead and crystal in prayer.

“Arya…”

He lets the words die in his throat as she tiptoes to press her fingers against his mouth. They stand as dancers frozen mid-step; but he sees an ember strike from flint to flame in her eyes as he trails a thumb along the ridge of her cheekbone. It smoulders as a fire burnt low in an ebony hearth, that flicker of warmth — of _life_ — in her dark eyes. He feels its heat fierce as the kiss she presses to his cheek, lingering long after she dips back to her heels and rests her brow to the hollow of his throat, her breath a shudder through half-parted lips.

 

*

 

As the sky turns from charcoal to pearl, the living gather in the hall. Someone feeds the fire; soon it blazes bright as the bonfires without, scarlet rags licking at the icy air. _The living_. But they are wreathed in woodsmoke — all bowed heads and fingers grasping for the fire’s warmth — and look like wraiths drifting through rolling banks of mist. Shoulder to shoulder, they share a flagon of spiced wine made blood-warm by the black kettle dangling amongst the flames.

She takes a cup, grips it till her knuckles turn white. Still, the tremble runs through her fingers; the cup creaks, a ruby wine-drop shudders over its lip. She watches it shimmer — bright as a jewel — upon her hand, tastes ash and blood and little sweetness when she sucks the shine of it off her skin. Before her shaking fingers can betray her, she sets the cup down upon a tabletop then lays her palms flat against the gnarled old ironwood, takes a breath that scratches at her throat like the smoke curling off the fire. _The living_. Wraiths in the woodsmoke, they may be; but they are all around her, bleeding, beating — _breathing_. The dagger presses into her hip; a twist of bone-and-blade that carries all the weight and weariness of the warrior who wields it.

Like bees to a hive, the way they buzz about deathly-blows and those who dealt them. She moves amongst them as a slender shadow, face as serene as she can make it, fingers tucked into the sword-belt at her hip to hide the tremor rattling her bones. Tiredness rolls over her as saltwater across sand; but she lifts her head to hear them all speak, the ice-carved set of her eyes and mouth making them squirm and look at their boots. Yet, still they ask —

“Who killed him?”

“No One,” she says quietly. “No One killed him.”

 

*

 

She moves soundless as a shadow, weightless as a feather — but she is weary, he can see it.

Tired to her bones, each limb heavy, each long line of skin and sinew pulled taut as a bow-string: the knotted column of her neck, the stretch of her shoulders, the slope of her back, the nest of aches between the crooks of her ribs. She catches him staring as she pulls the tunic over her head; their eyes meet as it falls to the flagstones underfoot, black as the blood still dappling her brow. Wordlessly, he reaches for her in the same breath as she steps toward him.

Fireflame sketches its shadows upon her skin, limns her wine-dark scars till they glow bright as rubies. He rasps his fingertips across the long, curved lines, closes his eyes as her shuddering breath fills his palms with her ribs. A thumb on his chin sets him to blinking up at her; it glides across his lips as she stares down at him with eyes the same dark grey as the ashes of a long-dead fire.

She leans against the grip he has of her as if she will fall without it. “They were asking who killed him.” Her voice is so soft he strains to hear it. “I told them No One… is _that_ who I am, Gendry? No One?”

“You are Arya Stark, daughter of the North.” His fingertips dig into her waist, a mirror to the steel edge that spins his words sure and swift from his throat. “You are the warrior of Winterfell, the champion of the living… and the woman who has my heart.”

Slowly, her eyes turn from ash to ember. “For so long, I have been like that king I killed… made of ice, bloodless, cold, heart a lump of stone in my chest.” Her fingers tremble as they skate across his shoulders; he smooths the shiver from her skin, traces shapes with his thumbs upon her waist. “Will I ever be warm again? I feel nothing… _nothing_ , Gendry.”

“Feel this.” He takes her hand from his neck, lays it to his chest. “Here, now — feel _me_.”

Her fingers unfurl — one by one — till her palm rests flat atop his heart. Skin to skin, the rush of his blood a drumbeat that soothes the shiver from her bones, runs as fire-warmed wine the valleys of her veins till her cheeks glow pink and her lips part and her eyes blaze as embers blown to flames in the hearth. He tilts his head just slightly, gaze flicking from her waist to her face; their eyes meet as the breath hitches in her throat.

“Arya…”

She is on him in half a heartbeat, toppling him beneath her as a wolf trapping a deer between its claws. Her fingers flex to find grip at his shoulders; nails a pinprick to his skin, he gives a groan that is half-garbled by the kiss that swoops to swallow it. He opens his mouth at the press of her lips, pulls back full of her salt-and-sweet taste — wine and ash and blood — leans in for more of it.

“Gendry…”

A shimmy of hips, she reaches between her legs as he circles her waist with his hands to lift her. She cloaks him in a pulse of fire; he groans, grips her tighter. A flush of heat cascades from his cock to his belly as he settles inside her, his fingertips digging as arrowheads at her hips as she rocks herself full of him, her head tipped back, ebony hair a wave of dragonglass begging for his fingers to tangle and twist at its silky strands till they shine bright as rings around his thumbs.

Her throat stretches moon-pale before him; she gives a soft little moan as he marks it with his teeth. He sucks the sting from it, leaves a crimson petal blooming on her bone-white skin. Fingers in his hair, a wrench and her mouth is hot on his; he tastes the rust of blood as she nips at his lip, then pulls back with a cry that bursts his heart. Her brow is a furrow of tide-lines in the sand, her lips parted — a flash of pink tongue and pearl teeth — as she rolls her head deeper into the hand he grips at her nape. She gives the smallest smile, then, as she rests her fingers to the warm brown skin of his chest, breathes slower till the thrum of her heartbeat is a mirror to his own.

 

*

 

They sleep — limbs a tangle of smokeberry vines — as the dawn comes in. Silvery threads through the shutters, its light hems the clouds of breath and woodsmoke as shapes picked out in a tapestry. She wakes, crooks on an elbow to watch the shadows play across his face, follows their shape with a fingertip. The long clean line of his jaw, the arrow-straight set of his nose, the flush skin above the coal-dark stubble of his cheeks. _The living_. She leans down, catches his sigh with a soft kiss that makes his storm-blue eyes roll slowly open. Their kiss deepens for half a breath; she draws back, rests her brow to his.

He traces the shadows beneath her eyes with a thumb. “How did you sleep?”

“I dreamt that I felt something, Gendry.”

Half a smile quirks at his lips. “What did you feel, Arya?”

“You,” she says softly. “ _You_.”

“How did I feel?”

“Warm and good… and _mine_.”

“That wasn’t a dream, Arya Stark,” he murmurs. “I am yours… if you’ll have me.”

She says nothing, only meets his sweet sleepy smile with one of her own, presses a kiss to his throat as she tucks her face into the crook of his neck. His arms tighten round her as she breathes in his scent: woodsmoke and honey-mead, steel and leather — warm and good and _hers_. He ghosts a kiss to her brow that lingers as a flint-spark upon her skin. She feels it glow, that flicker of warmth — of _life_ — long after dawn has turned from silver to gold at the shutters. Like a ray of sunlight, it burns away the shadows — one by one — till her heart is near as bright as the hills without.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **NB** : well, I watched that _stunning_ scene of Arya being a total legend in the godswood on YouTube, and decided [Firelight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589807) needed a sequel. As ever, hope you enjoy — and please feel free to leave feedback! ❤️


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